


our little corner of the world

by melodiousmadrigals



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluff, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Steve Trevor Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28520346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodiousmadrigals/pseuds/melodiousmadrigals
Summary: A collection of the one-shots I originally/exclusively posted to Tumblr in 2020, now being archived here in a single fic so as not to flood the tag.Ch 1 - who puts pineapple on pizza, wondertrev editionCh 2 - prompt: person a grows a beard; how does person b respondCh 3 - who hogs the covers, wondertrev editionCh 4 - prompt: applesCh 5 - prompt: movie theatersCh 6 - prompt: "it was the best blind date I didn't know I was on"
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	1. who puts pineapple on pizza?

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you who follow me on tumblr, these are not new fics, but I figured that now that 2020 has (finally) ended, I should archive them properly, seeing as my tumblr tags don't work half the time. They were originally published between July and October of last year. To those of you who haven't seen these before, I hope you enjoy these little (unrelated-to-each-other) one-shots! <3   
> *  
> unbeta'd   
> *  
> title from yo la tengo's 'my little corner of the world'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who puts pineapple on pizza, and who looks on in disgust? The age old dilemma is tackled, ft. a Very opinionated Barry Allen.

“I’m sorry, we’re eating _what_?” asks Steve. He’s been in the twenty-first century for five whole days when one of Diana’s friends from the Justice League—Barry, who he incidentally met five days ago—stops by because he misses her, crashing in with a whirl of limbs, a lot of enthusiasm, and a hankering for ‘pizza’.

“Pizza,” repeats Barry emphatically, buzzing with even more than his normal amounts of energy. (He _really_ likes pizza.)

“Gesundheit,” says Steve.

“Wait, you really don’t know what pizza is?” asks Barry, eyes wide.

Steve shrugs, and points to himself. “Transplant from 1918, remember?”

“Right, yeah. I’m just. Trying to comprehend a world. In which pizza doesn’t exist? And I’m not gonna lie, I’m having some trouble.”

“Okay, but what is it?”

“The most delicious thing in the world,” says Barry dreamily, as if it’s been a year since he’s had it and not eight days. Unfortunately, it provides Steve with no further clues.

“It is like a flatbread,” says Diana, looking up from her computer where, theoretically, she’s accessing a menu and a phone number. (The things technology can do now are astonishing.) “With herbed tomato sauce and cheese and assorted toppings. Then it is baked in an oven.”

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard,” says Steve. “You put _tomato sauce_ and _cheese_ on bread and then melt it?” He looks vaguely grossed out, and Barry squawks.

“No, man, it’s the best thing ever. It works, I promise!”

Steve looks entirely unconvinced. “I mean, fresh sliced tomatoes on a sandwich, sure,” he says, as Diana dials the number. “But sauce?”

“Just try it, and hold your judgement until after,” Barry encourages. Steve trusts Diana, and that’s not the only reason he’s willing to try it, but it’s the most important thing on his list.

“Hi, yes, I’d like to place an order for pick-up,” says Diana across from them. “One plain cheese pizza, one veggie supreme, one meat lover’s”—Barry makes a waving motion with his arms and when she looks over, he holds up two fingers—“sorry, two meat lover’s, and one specialty cheese pizza with pineapple.”

Steve’s head snaps up, and he glances at Barry. “Tell me she didn’t just say _pineapple_.”

Barry looks pained. “She definitely did. That’s how Diana orders her pizza.”

“Tomato and pineapple,” Steve says slowly, like he can’t comprehend it, mostly because he can’t. 

“That’s not a combination I endorse,” Barry says, holding his hands up in deference. “Pineapple on pizza is a hot-button issue in the culinary world, and your girlfriend is on the wrong side of history.”

“I most certainly am not,” says Diana indignantly, as she hangs up the phone. (Pineapple or not, Steve finds himself strangely warm at the casual way Barry linked them as a couple, without a second thought.) “The pizza will be ready in twenty-five minutes,” she adds.

“Copy that.” Barry stretches a little. “We have enough time for an episode of _The Good Place_ before I have to run in to get it.”

Diana already has something called Netflix pulled up, which leads Steve to believe this is an established ritual. “You’ll like this,” she says to Steve. “It’s a comedy about ethics.”

“No war, though,” Barry assures him seriously, and hits play on episode one, even though they’re meant to be in season three. Twenty-two minutes later as the credits play, Barry zips out of the apartment; he’s back within four minutes carrying five flat, stacked boxes.

Whatever Steve was imagining, a circle cut into triangles was not it. He stares at it a beat too long, and Barry sidles up to him.

“Whatever anyone else tells you, pizza is something you eat with your hands, not utensils.”

“Sure,” Steve says gamely, and watches as Barry picks up a piece, folding it mostly in half into an even thinner triangle, before shoving it into his mouth.

Steve follows suit, and takes a bite. There’s an explosion of flavor in his mouth: it’s strange, at first, but he does understand what Barry means about it working. The fatty saltiness of the cheese and the acidity of the tomato sauce complement each other.

It’s not destined to be his most favorite food, he thinks, but it’s a satisfying meal for sure.

He also tries the pizza with vegetables (it’s good; he loves onions, olives, and peppers, so he considers it an improvement even over the cheese pizza), and declines a slice of Barry’s pepperoni and sausage pizza. That’s when Diana also offers him a slice of hers.

He looks at the cooked pineapple, nestled in the melted cheese. It doesn’t look particularly appealing, but if Diana likes it, how bad can it be? After all, the other pizzas were good.

He takes a tentative bite.

It’s a _mistake._

He’s only ever had pineapple fresh and cold, and he _hates_ the texture of it cooked. The taste isn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought—the sweet tang pairs pretty well with the specialty goat cheese dollops—but it’s an experience he has no desire to repeat.

He manages to swallow, but puts the slice back on his plate and pushes it towards Diana. Next to him, Barry bursts out laughing. “Welcome to the correct side of pizzadom,” says Barry.

Diana shoots him a dirty look. “Pineapple is a perfectly acceptable topping.”

“Yeah, if you don’t have taste buds,” Barry jokes.

“It was more the texture,” Steve admits.

Diana gives him a soft look that makes Barry pretend to gag, and says, “It can be a little strange at first.”

“No way,” says Steve. “No _at first_. No more pineapple on pizza for me.” 

Diana studies him for a moment. “Very well. I think I can live without it, if it means getting to share a pizza with you.”

Steve can’t help but smile while Barry just blinks and then: “Goddamn it,” mutters Barry, who’s been trying to get her to admit pineapple on pizza is stupid for two years, now. “I can’t even tease her about the fact that she’s admitted there are, indeed, other ways to eat pizza, because that was adorable.”

Diana laughs; Barry sulks; and Steve thinks, privately, that he could get used to evenings like this one, pineapple pizza and all. 


	2. s(h)ave it for later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve grows a beard, and gets some very mixed reviews.

It’s almost midnight, but Diana is just getting home. She’s been on a business trip for the better part of a week, and is endlessly relieved to be back. She opens the door, already feeling the tension drain from her shoulders at the prospect of seeing Steve, and makes her way to their bedroom, where she suspects Steve will still be up, reading. 

She enters, drops her bags, and when she finally focuses on him, blinks in dismay. 

“ _What_ is that?”

Steve looks up from his novel. "Hello to you too.“

Diana just stares at him in abject horror.

"Your face,” she manages, inelegantly. 

“Oh,” says Steve, reaching up and running a hand over the several day old stubble now adorning his chin. “Something new I’m trying.”

“No.” It falls out softly, reflexively, without her brain’s permission, and immediately her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Sorry,” she says, at his amused look. “It’s your body.”

“How do you really feel?” Steve asks, mirth in his eyes. The war inside her is evident: she clearly hates the beard, and is also not willing to insert herself into his bodily autonomy, something she feels strongly about on every level. He chokes down a laugh at the expression on her face, tries not to betray how _funny_ he finds the whole situation. 

“That it’s your body, but I’m the one who has to look at it,” she says finally, her bluntness winning. Steve’s pretty sure it’s a subtle mark of trust that she’s willing to say it aloud. 

He’s not offended in the slightest, and doesn’t pretend to be. “Noted,” he says, “So far it’s working for me, but I’m still experimenting." 

"Hmm,” Diana says, doing her best not to be too disapproving. She drops the subject, but takes another moment to glare at the beard before proceeding on to more normal conversation. 

* * *

“It’s itchy,” complains Diana the next day, as it scratches against her cheek in an unfamiliar way. 

“You’re telling me,” says Steve. “The first few days were hell.” It was only after everything grew in that the itching stopped. 

Diana, trying hard not to be petulant in her dislike for Steve’s beard, once again moves on, silencing her misgivings and resigning herself to the ticklish sensation of the scruff scraping across her face and neck when they kiss. She’ll get used to it. 

Probably. 

* * *

Perhaps her vendetta against the beard would not be nearly so pronounced if there weren’t so many people remarking on how much they like it. 

“Oh, Steve, you look so handsome,” coos their eighty-something year old neighbor, Mme. Giraudet, when they run into each other in the hallway, and Diana bites her tongue as Steve grins and thanks her. 

“Your new beard suits you,” comments Diana’s colleague, Inès, when Steve stops by the Louvre for lunch one afternoon. The interns, meanwhile, titter amongst themselves, and Diana’s sure they’re also talking about the beard too, given that they gossip about everything else.

“Love the beard,” says Arthur at the next Justice League meeting, and Diana huffs as they talk about the best trimming techniques and Arthur asks if Steve plans to grow it any longer. (The answer is no, thankfully.) 

“Maybe I should grow one too,” says Barry thoughtfully, and Diana rolls her eyes, because Steve has officially crossed the line into _bad influence_. 

“I know an excellent styling product should you wish to give it a little panache,” says Alfred, and under her breath Diana mumbles, “Don’t encourage him." 

* * *

"You are lucky my skin heals so quickly,” Diana grouses one evening, as she examines the inside of her thigh, where there’s a light trail of irritated skin, already starting to fade. 

“Perk #327 of dating a literal goddess,” Steve quips jovially. They both know her skin will be completely unmarred in the next quarter of an hour, as if there had never been even the slightest bit of beard burn. 

Diana shoots him a dirty look, vaguely annoyed at his flippancy and simultaneously charmed by his infectiously good mood. 

“Shall I take a look for you?” he asks, far too innocently. 

She can’t help it; it makes her laugh. 

“Maybe I can kiss it better,” he continues, as though that isn’t exactly what precipitated this situation in the first place.

But honestly, the red is entirely faded now, and his smile makes her feel warm, as does the way his pupils are suddenly blown wide. She just might let him. 

* * *

It’s been a couple of months since Steve grew the beard, and Diana has resigned herself to its permanence. He likes it, and there’s no getting around that. 

So when Diana comes home one afternoon, she’s treated to a proper shock, one that makes her freeze upon entering the room. Steve’s focused on the computer, typing out an email, and she stands there staring at him an obscenely long time, because his beard is just… _gone._

“Your beard,” she manages finally, slightly strangled. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I shaved it,” says Steve absently, casual as anything—like he didn’t care about it, like it wasn’t secretly the bane of her existence—still focused on whatever he’s writing. 

“You shaved it,” she repeats faintly. 

“Eh, it stopped being exciting,” he admits, then looks up at her. “Besides, you hated it. It was a little funny at first, but ultimately not worth it.”

“Right,” she echoes, “I hated it." 

He grins at her, soft and sweet, and closes the computer in front of him. 

"Seriously, I wasn’t trying to torture you or anything. You know that, right?" 

Finally, something else that she can latch onto. She laughs at its absurdity. "Of course I do,” she says. “A beard is hardly a torture device, no matter what I wanted you to think." 

She leans in to kiss him, and touches his face lightly as an anchor, taking a moment to feel the now-smooth skin of his jaw. He laughs, taking it as another retroactive indictment of his beard, when in fact it’s anything but. 

She finds herself _conflicted_ ; she spent so much time thinking she hated his beard, and now that it’s gone…she misses it. Objectively, it _did_ look good on him—didn’t soften his jaw too much or make him look scruffy in an unappealing way—and as much as she complained about the beard burn, it wasn’t actually as annoying as she’d made it seem. In fact, it became a rough sensation she finds she may have liked, not that she’d admit it. And she liked how much _he_ liked it, the way he smiled every time he decided that _nah, I’m still keeping it for today,_ that she’d have to try to convince him to get rid of it tomorrow, instead. He clearly enjoyed having the beard. 

Which leaves her in a quandary: she can be silent, or she can set aside her pride and do an about-face on her opinion of the beard. 

"Steve,” she says hesitantly. 

“Yes, Angel?" 

"I just…I do not want you to go without a beard because of me.” There. Perhaps there’s a middle path. 

“It really doesn’t make that much difference to me; I’m happy to be clean shaven if it matters to you." (Or maybe there isn’t a middle way. Drat.)

"It doesn’t, really,” she admits, almost too softly to be heard. 

“What was that?” asks Steve, the sneaking start of a smile edging along the corners of his lips. Shit, he _knows._ She rarely gets anything by him, and today is no different; he knows her too well. 

“I did not really mind the beard, after all." 

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Diana gets there first. 

"Not a single word,” Diana warns, face hot.

“No, ma'am, not a one,” agrees Steve, but his smirk—wide and mischievous and knowing—says it all. 

Oh, she’s in for it. One way or another, that damn beard is going to be the death of her.


	3. cover hog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana's a little bit of a cover hog. They try to get a little creative with their solution.

Diana Prince is a Grade-A certified cover hog.

Steve knows this about her, and still loves her. He even finds it amusing.

Well, 99% of the time. The feeling’s a little hard to latch onto sometimes, when he wakes up shivering in the middle of the night because there are no blankets to be had. He’ll roll over and find Diana, nestled up in a little cocoon of them, entirely tangled and grip extremely tight.

It baffles him, it really does, because she can walk outside in the middle of winter without a coat and not even flinch at the cold, and yet when she sleeps, it’s a wonder if so much as her nose is exposed.

And look, he may run warm himself as a general rule, but when it starts to snow, he needs those covers. It’s one of the benefits to no longer being in the trenches: you get luxuries like mud-free boots and no one shooting at you and _cozy duvets._

It’s on one such night, deep into autumn and already feeling a sharp bite in the air, even with the radiators in their apartment on, that Steve awakes to find the covers gone _yet again_ —the third time this week, a new record—and spends a solid ten minutes trying to wrestle some of them back. He manages, but only just, and as he falls back to sleep, ever the tactician, he forms a plan.

* * *

“Diana, I love you,” Steve starts hesitantly the next morning over a hot, strong cup of coffee, handed to him by Diana, just as she does most mornings, because she always gets up first.

“I love you, too,” she says, clearly not thinking anything of it as she unfurls _Le Monde_ (another daily habit despite the fact that it’s a full day behind her Twitter feed). The words are so simple, but they still manage to send a pleasant zing down his spine, making his next sentence even harder.

“It’s just—I think for this winter, we need separate duvets,” he says, wincing.

To his mild surprise, Diana looks delighted. “What an innovative solution!” she exclaims.

Steve blinks. “Yeah?”

“Well, I certainly would not wish to sleep alone, and I certainly do not wish for you to be cold.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be? We all have our flaws, and I seem to take more than my fair share of the duvet.”

That’s an understatement, but Steve’s not about to point that out when this is going so well. So well, in fact, that he’s left unsure how to proceed.

“Oh. I just—had several arguments laid out,” he says lamely. It’s not that he expected her to be _difficult_ about it; he just didn’t expect it to be this easy.

Diana tosses him an amused look. "Would you like to list them, then?”

“No, it’s fine,” Steve mumbles, sheepish.

“Well then. Do you want to use the duvet from the guest room, or do you want to get a new one?”

Steve _really_ hadn’t thought that far ahead, and Diana leaves him to his musings, turning back to her paper.

* * *

In the end, he gets a new duvet, because they actually do put the guest room to use rather frequently.

(It turns out to be the right move, because Barry shows up unannounced the next day, and ends up crashing with them for the weekend.

“It’s wild that you don’t use a top sheet,” he says, not for the first time, “but that is the most comfortable bed and quilt _ever_.”)

The new duvet is _fantastic_ , really.

In the evenings, Steve unfurls it and overlaps it a little with Diana’s; they cuddle together until they fall asleep, and when—both active sleepers—they eventually roll away in the middle of the night, they each end up with their respective duvets. Steve luxuriates in having warm covers all night long, and Diana sleeps soundly in the knowledge that she can turn herself into a burrito without bothering Steve.

In the mornings, Diana untangles herself and goes to make coffee. Steve spends a few minutes relishing in the warmth of the bed and in feeling well rested, then he gets up, makes the bed, and joins her.

It’s the perfect solution, and as the days pass and they continue to get optimal sleep, they congratulate each other on the creativeness of it all.

* * *

And then Steve wakes up shivering.

He thinks it’s a dream, at first, because they _solved_ this problem. But the chill he’s feeling is very real, so he looks off the side of the bed, convinced that he accidentally kicked the duvet off in his sleep. Nothing.

What he does find, upon closer examination, is a truly towering pile of blankets on his other side. The smallest possible gap in the blankets reveals the tip of Diana’s nose and little else.

It’s so absurd and Steve is so disoriented because it’s three in the morning that he bursts out laughing, the kind that starts deep in his chest and shakes his whole body.

The blanket behemoth beside him shoots up. “What’s wrong?” Diana asks blearily as she fights her way out of the tangle of covers.

“Angel, how many blankets do you have there?”

Diana looks down, the moonlight revealing two very distinct colors twisted together, and falls against Steve’s shoulder, groaning.

“I’m sorry.” It’s muffled, her face still tucked against his collarbone.

“I can’t believe you managed to get both full duvets,” gasps Steve, still shaking with laughter.

Diana grumbles something unintelligible under her breath as she separates Steve’s duvet from hers, and they rearrange the blankets so that it once again resembles a bed and not a chrysalis.

Diana keeps herself tucked into Steve as they lay back down, slipping an arm around him and twining their legs together.

“I really am sorry,” Diana whispers. “I’ve never had this problem before. Not even as a girl when we would go on practice scouting missions and share pallets and I got properly cold at night. I don’t even realize I’m doing it, now.”

“It’s really alright,” he whispers back. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Her speech is slurred, sleepy. He’s not sure she even really fully woke up.

As he mulls her words over, he realizes there’s an unintended implication there, one Diana may not even have stumbled on herself: she is not aware of doing it because she is sleeping deeply, not half on-guard even as she rests. Steve melts a little at this trust, and if he’d had any lingering annoyance, it would certainly be gone now.

He glances down to say something more, only to find Diana already asleep again. He drops a soft kiss to her forehead and lets his eyes drift close. His last conscious thought is that getting to sleep next to her is worth it.

He would gladly wake up cold every single night, so long as he was waking up next to _her._

* * *

(The first rays of morning light find them still curled into each other, warm and content—and blissfully unaware in their deep sleep—as outside, a midwinter storm coats the world in white.) 


	4. no orchards!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a peculiar dislike of apple orchards...at least as a commercialized autumn activity.

Orchards, to Steve’s eternal bemusement, have become a popular autumn date destination.

“Why would I take you on a date somewhere that involves _work?_ ” he asks, grimacing at his phone, where a listicle of _11 Awesome Autumn Outings!_ displays Apple Picking at #3. He finds that personally offensive; the farm he grew up on had fruit trees, and they were just as much a nightmare come harvest time as an enjoyable food source.

“It’s cute,” says Diana, who likes the idea, as she’s scrolling through a museum website on her own phone. They’re sitting on the couch, trying to come up with an interesting date for the next afternoon, and Google is letting them down. “Very autumnal, and you get to choose your fruit. People like knowing where their food comes from.”

“I like knowing where my food comes from just fine,” grumbles Steve, “but knowing it came from Jean-Luc’s orchard”—the kind older gentleman who runs their favorite fruit stand at the farmer’s market—“is enough; I don’t also need to know which branch it came from because I twisted my back in the process of reaching too high for it.”

Diana grins into her phone, because she can feel a rant coming.

“Look at this— _all pre-picked apples available in our market are washed and polished and inspected for the highest quality._ Those poor workers. And I bet they constantly have to be picking the rotting apples off the trees instead of harvesting in one go.”

“Probably,” says Diana.

“And it’s not like the people picking their own apples are really helping with the harvest,” continues Steve, finding his groove. Diana was right; this is about to turn into a full-blown rant. “Because they’re probably not being methodical about it! They’re just taking the nicest apples they can find instead of picking a branch clean.”

Diana hums and once again bites back her amused smile.

“Which is another thing—when did people suddenly decide that ugly fruits and vegetables were inedible? A spot is not the end of the world, but people think they need a shiny, perfect apple just to take a bite.”

It’s not a new frustration of Steve’s, but his continued indignation always makes her go a little soft, as does the fact that he consistently buys the ugliest produce at the market on purpose. (That he cares about needless food waste is attractive, okay? Sue her.)

“Well, the way I see it, we have two options.”

 _Please, continue,_ the tilt of his head tells her.

“We can find the branch with the ugliest apples and pick them all,” says Diana, “or—and I know this is a radical idea—we could just simply not take”—she glances at the listicle on his phone—“FizzPop’s advice and plan a date elsewhere instead.”

She feels him go slack next to her. “Yeah, I guess that is an option.”

“Here,” she says, handing him her phone. “I forgot that this exhibit opened last weekend. We can ditch the autumn theme and go here instead.”

Steve looks at it absently and nods. “I’ll buy you a pumpkin spice latte on the way there.”

Diana wrinkles her nose. “You most certainly will not. But I can buy you one.”

That manages to make Steve grin.

(The next morning, they make it to Jean-Luc’s stand for their seasonal produce—including apples—instead. “No orchards,” chirps Steve, as he cheerfully finds the apples with the most calloused and spotty skin. When Diana hands him a gnarled apple she found at the bottom of the bushel basket and echoes, “No orchards,” he positively beams, and it’s a grin that stays on his face through his pumpkin spice latte and the temporary exhibition.)

* * *

_No orchards_ becomes something of a running joke. They laugh about it as the trend grows, and friends—most notably, Barry, who chatters excitedly at about a mile a minute—start referencing apple orchard dates. _No orchards,_ repeats Steve, every time it comes up, and Diana just smiles bemusedly because she’s got nothing against orchards, not the way Steve does. It’s a joke that dies down once it’s no longer autumn, but it’s certainly not forgotten.

In fact, it becomes relevant again in the spring.

It’s early May, and they’re in the car, on their way to a date location that Steve has been surprisingly tight-lipped about.

“Where are we going?" asks Diana outright, by the time they’re twenty minutes outside of the city, but Steve just shakes his head and keeps driving.

They end up in the middle of the countryside, at a farm that Diana thinks sounds vaguely familiar but can’t quite place.

“Come on,” says Steve, pulling a basket out of the back of the car, and grabbing Diana’s hand with his free one. And then he’s tugging her up a path and over the crest of a hill—

—and into a sea of pink and white buds.

They’re surrounded by neat rows of trees in full bloom, the wafting perfume of apple blossoms sugary sweet and the thrum of honeybees a soft symphony from the moment they enter the orchard.

It’s beautiful and peaceful, so far removed from the busy streets of the city and the stress of both of her jobs that it may as well be another planet.

“You brought me to an orchard,” Diana says softly. It took her a second to string it all together, because she (rightfully) associates orchards with autumn.

“You like orchards,” replies Steve with a shrug.

“I do.” _You don’t_ is unspoken.

“They’re hard to dislike when they look like this,” Steve admits, gesturing to the blooms engulfing them and smiling at the lazy bumblebee doing a little dance in front of Diana’s face, trying to figure out if her bright lipstick is edible.

The grin that breaks out on Diana’s is uncontainable. “Thank you.” 

She may miss the soft way Steve looks at her as they walk a little deeper into the trees, but the sentiment is not lost on her, not when this is the date he put together for them. Eventually, they come to a halt, spread out the picnic blanket Steve brought and unpack the basket, full of simple favorites.

“I forget sometimes how quiet the world can be, when you let it,” she whispers later, when they’re laying on their backs, thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, staring up into the canopy of flowers above them.

“It’s been a long time since I was used to stillness,” says Steve, “but this is peaceful.”

She glances at him teasingly. “So, does this mean you’ve officially rethought the _no orchards_ policy?”

“Oh, no, not a chance.”

Diana’s laughter echoes through the trees, and if she happens to lean in and kiss him—well, only the bees are watching.


	5. silver screen splendor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana takes Steve to the cinema for the first time.

Steve knows what a television is, and how it works, okay?

Well, he understands it conceptually.

(In theory, anyways.)

It shows a moving picture; it’s one of the technological leaps that has happened since he ‘died’. He’s seen glimpses of what Diana’s computer and mobile phone can do, with their sleek lines and the way they light up and retrieve information faster than he can comprehend. He’s seen the display screens in the metros, and the streaming advertisements that flash by as the train speeds through the dark tunnels, the sequences of pictures that replicate people in motion, a little disjointed but just as good as the cutting edge moving pictures he saw in the 1910s. But in the month that he’s been in the 21st century, he’s never actually seen one of these _movies_ that everyone talks about, or anything on the Tee-Vee, really.

To be clear, he doesn’t particularly feel like he’s missing out. Diana doesn’t have a television in her apartment, and even though Barry has scoffed at this fact all four (4) times Steve’s met him (time he pulled him a hundred years forward in history _inclusive_ ), there are plenty of other things for them to do.

(For one thing, Steve has yet to exhaust the new and creative ways in which he wants to worship Diana’s body, thank you very much.)

 _The point is_ , Steve does not care a whit about television or moving pictures beyond a cursory, isn’t-the-future-interesting sort of way.

And then Diana suggests that they go to the cinema on a date.

“I think you’d enjoy it,” she says, and maybe he’s an absolute sap, but the fact that she thinks he’ll like it is all the convincing he needs. 

He agrees immediately, and that’s that. 

* * *

“Do I need to get dressed up?” Steve asks the next afternoon as they’re getting ready to go to the cinema.

“Not even a little,” replies Diana from the bathroom, in the process of braiding back her hair. “The cinema is dark and traditionally one eats a lot of horribly sugary food.”

This suits Steve, who likes sugar and doesn’t particularly like suits. (It also doesn’t hurt that the casual button-down he’d earmarked for the evening and now gets to wear is one that always makes Diana’s eyes darken a little.) 

When they arrive, Diana is the one who chooses their seats and pays for the tickets, while Steve looks around gamely at the bright posters, still a little unsure what to expect. 

Next, she steers him to the concession stand.

“We could have just brought snacks from home,” says Steve, glancing warily over the prices on the overhead menu. He’s still not used to modern pricing; it makes him itchy. 

“Not for your first cinema experience,” says Diana. “That wouldn’t do.”

In front of them, a pair of bouncing children tug on their mother’s sweater, pleading for the largest size possible of—

“Popcorn?” asks Steve, pleasantly surprised, and now examining the food displays with renewed interest. It’s something he remembers eating as a child, on cold autumn nights around the fireplace.

“It’s a cinema staple.”

“That, then." 

Diana orders a bucket and a selection of candy to go with it. They’re left with enough time that they can duck into their seats a few minutes early. The lights are still low and the screen blank, but they dig into their treats anyways.

“It’s got no substance to it,” Steve says of the popcorn, though he promptly shoves another handful into his mouth and then sends a lopsided grin her way, cheeks bulging. “More salt and butter, though,” he adds after a moment, and Diana smiles.

“Yes, humans got rather good at that.”

“I’m certainly not complaining.”

It’s just then that the lights go dark, and the screen comes alive. 

As the opening scene plays, Diana watches Steve’s eyes widen just a little, the way he jumps at the sound and leans forward, almost entranced by the screen. 

"Wow,” he breathes, more to himself than to her. “Motion pictures really do have sound now." 

Diana bites back a smile, and has to force herself to look back at the screen. 

(It doesn’t work: the movie is passably interesting, but it doesn’t hold a candle to expressions on Steve’s face, and she spends most of the film watching him fondly instead. The way his eyes go so wide that she can see the flashing reflection of the movie mirrored across them. The way his lips part slightly and he sucks in a sharp breath as the action races towards its peak. The little expressions that flick across his features, one after another as he gets lost in the story. She doubts she’ll be able to give nuanced commentary on the substance of the film, but it’s worth it.) 

* * *

“That was amazing,” Steve says breathlessly, as the credits roll. “That was _amazing._ I knew technology had come a long way, but it’s so lifelike and crisp. Like it was really happening in front of us." 

Diana wonders briefly if this was what it was like for Steve when she first arrived, seeing bits of the world through fresh eyes, experiencing simple pleasures as something profound, revolutionary. For her, the progress happened so steadily that she never really stopped to marvel how far it’s truly come.

"It’s extraordinary,” she agrees, and he wastes no time in launching into an excited analysis of the film. 

When he eventually gets to the special effects, Diana makes a mental note to show him some of the movies from the ‘80s to demonstrate just how quickly ‘cutting edge’ effects have changed. She also makes a mental note to invest in a television, and maybe reinstate her Netflix account, and to look up drive-in theaters. 

“So,” she says, when Steve takes a breath, “same time next week?" 

His ensuing grin is all the answer she needs.

(Popcorn is nice and all, but there’s at least one other cinema tradition she’s looking forward to.)


	6. the best blind date i didn't know i was on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana's blind date does not quite go as planned, but no one is complaining.

Diana is late.

And she’s not even sure she wants to be here, which is making her even more late as she dithers just outside the bistro where her blind date is meant to be taking place.

_Damn it, Etta._

Etta’s been pushing to set Diana up on a blind date since a couple of months after her break-up with Kasia, which—it had been a bad break-up. Not messy or dramatic, but still heartbreaking to come to the conclusion that they’d grown, just not together, and wanted different things out of life.

Diana is still smarting, not entirely sure if she even wants a new relationship. And _then_ there’s the fact that she doesn’t particularly like blind dates, _and_ that the person Etta has suggested is a _man._ Which is…theoretically valid; Diana can’t contest that. But men can be such pigs, and it’s one of many reasons that she’s second-guessing this whole endeavor.

In fact, she’s in the middle of round four of questioning whether she’s even going to go in (and cursing the day she absentmindedly agreed to Etta’s offer to set her up with ‘Grant’) when she realizes: it’s a person in there, wondering why they’re being stood up, and that’s not fair, no matter how much she doesn’t want to be here.

Steeling herself, she marches in. Her eyes scan the restaurant—ah, there. Tucked away in a corner, near one of the windows looking out onto the street, is the only solo diner in the establishment. And he’s already got a bowl of soup in front of him. (That’s fair; she’s now twenty-four whole minutes late.) Taking a calming breath, she heads over to the table.

“I’m so sorry for how late I am,” she says, sliding into the chair opposite of what she now realizes is an unfairly attractive man: swooping blond hair and bright blue eyes and a strong jaw— _focus, Diana!_ “It’s truly unforgivable. I—” She could fib, blame it all on her work, but that would only account for about seven minutes of tardiness. The rest is all on her, and she’s not one for lying. “I have no excuse.” She takes a breath, allows herself to reset. Gives the man in front of her a small smile. “I’m Diana.”

“Steve,” says the man, a strange expression on his face as he reaches across the table to shake her hand. (Firm, but not the arsehole power-grip that so many men prefer.)

She blinks, because Etta had said _Grant_ , but now that she thinks about it, Etta has a habit, left over from her days in the military, of calling people almost exclusively by their last names.

“Right, Steve,” she says, testing the name out, and his mouth quirks up into a smile. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. She ducks her head to hide her own smile, and her eyes again fall on the half-eaten bowl of soup. The smile drops, registering that she’s kept him waiting long enough to not only order but start eating. “I really am sorry,” she apologizes, but Steve waves a hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m glad for the company.”

If this is a strange thing to say to a blind date, Diana doesn’t notice, too focused on the way he hands her a menu and politely seeks the waitress’s attention. (Another point in his favor; he isn’t demanding, and makes casual, affable conversation with the woman while Diana scans the menu so she can place her food order right away with her drink.)

“So, Diana,” Steve says, after she’s ordered, “what is it that you do?”

It strikes her as odd; she would’ve thought Etta would have told him, but maybe he’s just being polite, so she launches into an explanation of her curation job, and he asks intelligent, relevant follow-up questions, and suddenly they’re talking about art and architecture and the best uses of beetroot and the innovation of the Gambian case in front of the ICJ and that Icelandic group that sang the haunting 800 year old hymn _a cappella_ in the metro a few years back and a number of things in between.

There’s something that feels so natural about talking to him, and before she realizes it, the bistro is starting to close down for the evening.

“Can I have your number?” asks Steve, as they pay and make their way back into the cool night air.

Diana bites back a grin and nods, holding out her hand for his phone, where she adds herself as a contact.

“I had a really nice time tonight.”

“Me too.”

She kisses him on the cheek, and then they’re headed in separate directions. Almost immediately her phone buzzes, and when she pauses to look at it, she sees a message from an unknown number.

_This is Steve!_

She turns back to find him standing at the opposite end of the block, grinning at his phone. He looks up in time to catch her watching him and raises a hand in a sort of faux salute, making her laugh and shake her head.

There’s a lingering smile stuck on her face that she can’t seem to get rid of (and doesn’t particularly want to) as she walks home, enjoying the cool night air and the giddy feeling of a nice evening.

* * *

The next morning, there’s a frantic knock on her door. When she opens it, it’s Etta, who’s absolutely beside herself.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Diana. I’m going to murder him!” she exclaims, hurriedly pacing the room. “I really thought he was better than that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _Grant,_ ” she hisses. “He just—left you there. Decided not to show. Freely admitted to it via text this morning! I’m going to skin him alive when I find him in person.”

“But Etta, I—” Her brow furrows, and suddenly a couple of things that didn’t quite make sense about the evening slot into place. “Etta, it’s okay. I had an enjoyable night anyways.”

“—the _audacity,_ ” Etta is saying.

“Etta,” Diana says more forcefully, catching her by the shoulders gently. “Don’t trouble yourself. It was hardly a wasted evening. Maybe no more blind dates, though, okay?”

“Right,” agrees Etta, deflating. “Of course not.”

The moment Etta finally leaves, Diana picks up her phone, stares at the text there _(“This is Steve!”_ stares back, bafflingly unhelpful in revealing answers to the questions she has), and hits the call button before she can overthink it. Steve picks up after just two rings.

“Diana, hi!” He sounds pleased and a little surprised, but she mostly misses it in getting straight to the point.

“Your last name isn’t Grant.”

She can almost hear the wince through the line. “Er, no. It’s not.”

“You weren’t at _Bistro Papillon_ for a blind date last night.”

A slight pause. “I was not.”

“Steve—”

“I didn’t realize, right away, what was going on,” says Steve, rushed now, something desperate in his tone. “And when I did—I was going to tell you, I swear. But then—I wanted to keep talking,” he admits quietly, almost defeated. “And I was afraid if I told you, you’d leave, which in hindsight is stupid, because it should have been your choice—”

“My would-be date stood me up.”

“Then they’re an idiot,” says Steve, without missing a beat.

Diana huffs a laugh. “I’m the idiot,” she says, “for just sitting down when you were in the middle of your meal and assuming you were my date like a crazy person, and ruining your evening—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” And gods, he sounds so _sure_.

“But when I sat down—”

“You looked like an angelic vision,” he interrupts, voice still perfectly resolute, “and I knew that even if I didn’t know you, or why you were at my table, I wanted to get to know you.”

“And—”

“And then you were brilliant and witty, and we had the best dinner conversation I’ve had in a really, really long time.”

“I ranted about the fallacies of using a hegemonic, patriarchal lens to view Hellenistic terracottas and marbles for at least eight uninterrupted minutes,” refutes Diana, somewhat sheepishly.

“Yeah,” says Steve, and she thinks, somehow, that she can hear the amusement in his voice. “As I said, brilliant, and the most interesting conversation I’ve had in ages.”

Diana shakes her head, then realizes he can’t see that through the phone. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Yet here we are.”

He hasn’t hung up yet. Neither has she, for that matter.

(She finds that she doesn’t really want to.)

“So what _is_ your last name, if you’re not the Grant with whom my friend was going to set me up?”

“Trevor,” he replies. “Steve Trevor.”

“Where does that leave us, Steve Trevor?”

“Well, what are you doing for lunch?” Steve asks, and she laughs; she can’t help it.

“I’ve got no plans, just yet.”

“I’d like to hear the whole story,” muses Steve. “Come on a date with me?”

“Yes,” says Diana automatically, before she can overthink it. Then, “This is absurd. The way we’ve started—”

“Will be an excellent story to tell, someday,” he counters.

And it is. Whenever someone asks them how they met, later, Steve inevitably grins, sharing a wink with Diana as he prepares his version of the tale. “Well,” he starts, every time, “it was the best blind date I didn’t realize I was on…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!


End file.
